Cry of Sorrow (16 page)

He reached his quarters, pulling aside the woven curtain of bardic blue trimmed with silver that hung over the cave mouth. There was a fire burning in the brazier—Cariadas’s work, no doubt. The girl did her best to take care of him. He smiled to himself, thinking of her impulsive generosity, her bright spirit. One day she would be the Dreamer of Kymru. His smile faded, leaving his face lined and sad. Would her brightness become tarnished by what she saw in her dreams? Would she become as her father—cold and hard? Yet it was not the dreams that had made Gwydion that way. It was something inside of those who refused to face their wounds, and so built walls to stay safe. Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s teacher, had done the same.

With a sigh, he sat down on the piled cushions of his pallet. His bones ached, living this close to the sea. But he would not trade it for anything. It was so beautiful. He reached out and picked up his harp, plucking out a new tune, another song of the beauty he found here.

“You should be asleep.”

He didn’t even look up, but said gently, “Elstar, my dear, so should you.”

Elstar, the Ardewin of Kymru, sat down at the edge of the pallet. Her light brown hair was loosened from its customary braid and fell in shimmering waves to her waist. She wore a plain robe of sea green, and her blue eyes were dimmed and tired.

“I was on my way to bed when a message came. Jonas ap Morgan has arrived.”

“Ah, poor Jonas. Perhaps I should see him now, if he’s not too tired.”

“He doesn’t look at all well, da.”

“I would think not. The deaths of his wife and baby daughter have no doubt torn his heart to shreds. May the wyrce-jaga’s black souls live long and long under the hand of the Lord of Chaos,” Anieron replied, somewhat more forcefully than he had intended.

“You are tired, too.”

“So I am,” he agreed, for there was no use arguing the point.

“Perhaps you should see him tomorrow,” Elstar began.

“I will see him now.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I’m not sure. I may keep him here for a while. On the other hand, I need another Bard in Gwynedd since Neuad killed the last one. I’ll know better what to do when I see him.”

“Very well, I’ll bring him to you. Oh, by the way, how are your Bards doing with the Plentyn Prawf? Any news?”

“In Rheged there is none yet—Esyllt just left the camp and isn’t even out of Coed Addien. Trystan goes with her.”

“Humph. Is that why she is so slow?”

Anieron grinned. “She was never one of my bravest. But she does what I tell her. In Prydyn, Cian is somewhere near the city of Cil. Achren guards him, and there is no one better. So far they have found one candidate for the Bards and two for the Dewin.”

“And the others?”

“In Ederynion, Talhearn and Angharad are near Sycharth, having already located one Bard, two Druids, and a Dewin.”

“And what in the world are we going to do with these baby Druids?”

“For them, we wait. When the enemy is defeated, when Cathbad is dead, we can build up the Druids again, using Sinend. I believe we can count on her to train a new generation of Druids in the right way.”

“And in Gwynedd?”

“Susanna has already identified two Bards and one Druid on her journey. She and Bedwyr are now approaching Tegeingl.”

Elstar’s brows went up. “Is that wise?”

“They will do some testing in the wool works outside the city. They should be safe enough. Now, let me see Jonas.”

“All right. But I warn you, the poor man is stretched tighter than a drum.”

“I’m warned. Now bring him in.”

Elstar left without further comment, and a few moments later the curtain was again drawn back as Jonas entered the room. The Bard was thin and slight. He had sandy hair and eyes of pale green. His clothes were patched and worn, and his face was tight with misery and sleeplessness. Anieron gestured for him to sit, and Jonas settled gingerly on the pallet, erect and tense, as though ready to spring up if the situation called for it.

Anieron put the harp aside and gently said in his rich voice, “Jonas ap Morgan. You are welcome here. I was so sorry to hear of the deaths of your wife and baby.”

Jonas swallowed hard and nodded, but did not speak.

“You are welcome here for as long as you like. Perhaps a rest would do you good.”

“What would I do here, Master?” Jonas whispered.

“Well, there are messages to pass on. Records to keep. Children to teach—”

“No!” Jonas said harshly.

“Yes, all right. I understand.”

“Master, I … I wish to get away from Rheged. A change of scenery might …” he trailed off uncertainly, staring at the floor, his thin, pale hands clenched together.

“Before the war, you were the Bard to Diadwa in Creuddyn.”

“Yes,” Jonas said hesitantly. “I was happy in Gwynedd. We were close to Tegeingl and used to visit King Uthyr’s court often. Diadwa was a gracious lady, and she often had guests. So much singing then, and so much laughter.”

“You would like to go back there? Yet you know as well as I do that things are different there now.”

“I was happy in Gwynedd,” Jonas said quietly. “And it is far from Rheged.”

“Well, then, to Gwynedd you shall go. But not to Creuddyn.”

“I–”

“One of the Bards who served the Cerddorian in Gwynedd has recently met with an accident. He must be replaced. I will send you to Morrigan and Cai.”

Jonas glanced up quickly, his pale eyes gleaming, then swiftly looked down.

“They have need of you there,” Anieron went on. “Will you go?”

It would be some time before Anieron fully understood why the smile Jonas had given then had been so bitter.

   
Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—midmorning

D
UDOD AP
C
YVARNION
was only slightly disconcerted. A man less used to getting out of tight spots might well have been horrified. But Dudod was not such a man. He recognized, of course, that this might be the end of a long and satisfying life, for he knew very well that he could not afford to be taken alive.

Up to this moment, his trip had been relatively uneventful. He had spent many days in Llwynarth, trying to discover the Coranians’ plan for poor Princess Enid. But he had not been able to find out, and had at last given up. In a lifetime of trusting his feelings, he simply knew that he could not afford to stay in Llwynarth one more day.

The day before he left Llwynarth, he had seen Sabrina, King Morcant’s Druid, in the company of Bledri. They had come to the marketplace on an errand that Dudod had not been able to determine, due to the fact that he had melted away as quickly as possible. Yet he was sure that before he could do so, Sabrina had seen and recognized him. The interesting thing was that as soon as his eyes had met hers, she had turned away, gabbling at Bledri to see the jeweled comb she wanted, distracting the Dewin from looking over in Dudod’s direction.

He had shadowed the couple for as long as he had dared, hoping for a chance to talk to her. She of all people would surely know what the plans for Enid were. But there had been no opportunity to talk. After the marketplace, they had gone straight to the temple of Lytir, which stood in what was once the sacred grove of Mabon, Lord of the Sun.

He didn’t think he would ever forget the expression on her face when she emerged from the temple after having assisted the preosts in the worship services. She had returned to Caer Erias and ridden out of the gates of Llwynarth a few hours later. She was unaccompanied and clearly expected—the Coranian guards at the gate let her pass without comment.

Whatever her errand, Dudod had not liked the look on her face. His attempts to find out where she was going had been useless. So he had left Llwynarth soon after and traveled east, as far as Peris, the last city on the way to Allt Llwyd. Invoking the law of hospitality, he had gone to one of the houses in the city and simply knocked on the door.

They had let him in, fed him, and sheltered him for the night. He had not been asked his name, nor had he given it, but just after dinner the master of the house had silently handed Dudod a harp. And Dudod had taken it and begun to play. He would never forget the bright smile of the little girl who had sat at his feet, listening with all her might to the music he made. Nor would he forget the face of the lady of the house, the mix of joy and fear that passed across her face like sunshine and shadow.

If only he could get word to Anieron! His brother must know what Dudod had just now discovered, here on this road outside of Peris. But Dudod was too far away to Wind-Speak to Allt Llwyd. Only another five leagues or so, and he would be close enough. If he could escape this trap just long enough to send a message, the Coranians could find his corpse for all he cared. For what he had seen here was part of the answer to the questions that had troubled them all since the meeting in Eiodel.

Patiently, as though he had nothing particular on his mind, he waited with the rest of the eastbound travelers for his turn to be questioned. No doubt the pack on his horse would be opened and examined, but that was no problem. He was posing as a peddler, and the pack contained nothing that should not be there. He wore a simple tunic and trousers of brown leather; his green cloak was threadbare and clasped at the neck with a plain bronze brooch. His tanned skin was stretched tightly over his high cheekbones. He did not wear a cap, for he was vain of his sun-streaked brown hair, which was just now beginning to gray (the fact that Anieron’s hair was almost completely silver gave him much satisfaction). His green eyes were sharp and clever, but that was in character for a peddler who must make a living. All was as it should be and he could get through this—unless, as he suspected, they knew who they were looking for.

Apparently he had been seen in the marketplace after all.

Well, just in case he got out of this one, he used the time to examine as closely as he dared the collar that the black-robed wyrce-jaga held.

He had recognized its purpose the moment he saw it. It was an enaid-dal, a soulcatcher, and the sight of it made his blood run cold, as nothing else had ever done. As a Bard he knew there had been times in the history of Lyonesse when it had been necessary to subdue a recalcitrant Y Dawnus. But the collars made to do that were few, and very old. But this one was recently made. This was the reason for Cathbad’s smile after the meeting in Eiodel. This was the reason for the disappearance of the Master Smiths and their families.

A distraction was all Dudod needed. Carefully, he began a soft call, Far-Sensing to determine what animals might be within reach of his telepathic communication. The forests nearby were sparse and the wolves few there. Not good enough. Horses would do, but Coranians did not ride them often, and he would need quite a few. There was the horse he was riding, of course, but he would need the animal to get away.

Far-Sensing as hard as he could, he did not notice at first that the travelers behind him were moving up quietly ahead of him, crowding him out of his place in line, screening him from the sight of the wyrce-jaga and the guards. A slight jostle on his elbow as one man moved ahead of him dropped him out of his light trance. The man, a farmer by the look of his strong arms and leathery face, said nothing, but looked at him sharply for a brief moment before turning away and planting his body squarely in front of Dudod.

Dudod looked around to see that he was now the last man in the line. A brief respite, but one that might make all the difference. Silently he blessed these travelers in the name of Taran of the Winds. Then he Far-Sensed again.

Ah, at last. A flock of ravens heading this way in response to his call. How very appropriate, he thought, almost grinning. How absolutely perfect.

He moved forward a few steps. There were only three men ahead of him on the road now. The women had been barely questioned and were now standing to one side, waiting for their menfolk, talking quietly among themselves. The man who had jostled Dudod was now being questioned.

“Name?” the wyrce-jaga asked officiously.

“None of your business,” the farmer replied in a belligerent tone.

The wyrce-jaga, apparently not used to such answers, gaped at the farmer for a moment. The men and women who had been questioned already but who, for some reason, had not yet departed, moved forward slightly, once again crowding Dudod out of the sight of the warriors.

“You will tell me your name or you will die,” the wyrce-jaga threatened, recovering from his surprise. The black-robed man had meant for his voice to sound menacing, but it shook slightly. The three Coranian warriors were standing alert and ready, but the grins on their faces showed what they thought of the wyrce-jaga.

“You tell me why you want to know, and I’ll tell you my name,” the farmer replied, his bluff, good-natured face now set in a scowl. “Fair is fair.”

Once again, the people watching moved in even closer. One woman put her hand inside the covered basket she carried. Dudod thought he saw the gleam of metal there. Time was running out—he didn’t want these people to pay for his escape with their lives.

At last they came. To the north the sky darkened just behind the guards. Then the flock of ravens dropped out of the air and began to feed. The screams of the guards and the wyrce-jaga echoed across the plain, the raucous caws of the birds mingling in a strange, horrifying harmony. The other travelers grimly stood their ground, watching the birds as they covered the Coranian bodies, ready and waiting to ensure that the work was done properly.

“Hurry, man,” the farmer called. “Who knows how many other Coranians might be in the area! Ride!”

Dudod grasped the reins of his horse. “My thanks to you all,” Dudod said. “Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” At a silent word from him, the birds parted from the screaming wyrce-jaga just long enough for Dudod to wrench the collar from what was left of the man’s hands. Then the birds closed in again, continuing their dreadful feeding.

With distaste, Dudod stowed the object in his pack. “The blessings of Taran of the Winds on you all. And a good Alban Awyr!” Dudod called as he mounted his horse and shot away to the east, riding like the wind.